


The Heart Of Sherlock Holmes

by Pearlsky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, however i will reply to any and all questions in the comment, you need to watch sherlock to understand this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:28:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22704706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearlsky/pseuds/Pearlsky
Summary: Sherlock was the kind of mystery that would put himself in front of imminent death only to have an intellectual thrill. a puzzle so rare, and so unusual, it confused john terribly.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

John was a man of morality and sense. He was raised on strict principles and society rules, only further amplified by the army life. to be a simple, rightful, lawful man, who is dependable and can provide for a family. A man who dresses properly in good old-fashioned ways, and always, always, knows his place. 

His childhood was a mixture of incredible joy and torturous pain, but mostly a nauseous concoction that he learned by the years- and through therapy- is best to be forgotten. Education cost a lot of money, and meant a lot of debt, and with the current economic status, it would take more years than he could’ve ever been able to bare in order to move out of home and pay off his debts. Choosing army, a choice that has the implications of certain doom, at least to be permanently deformed and handy capped, truly shined a light on how horrendous home was, and how escaping it, was the first and foremost priority, even before being alive.

University was actually good. He made friends there, and he lived in the dorms through scholarships, which, in hindsight, were what made him feel so much better. To be away from home. 

The army provided him a society with all sorts of people, but most importantly of men, more honourable and respectable than he was ever subjected to. Men who gave him kindness, and, absurdly, love, in quite a male dominated, gruesome circumstances. These circumstances got the best and the worst out of you, and for people like General Sholto, it got his paternal, father figure side out, that feared and cared for all the men and women in his troop. John never was the talkative, extroverted kind who easily made friends, and that was a perk in an environment that easily took away all you held dear. The stakes were too high to ever get attached, yet people who he subconsciously held dear, got in harm’s way anyway. He thanks God always that General Sholto never died then. Otherwise, he doesn’t know how much worse his mental health would’ve been. General Sholto raised him better than his father ever did.

Going back to London was like a smack to the face. Back to square one, only harder and much worse mentally. It dawns on him that signing up for the military was always a death wish, just one he subconsciously made. He never imagined or meant to come back alive. And he wonders if that was what depression was that his psychiatrist talks about all the time. She was probably hinting that he had it all along, and that she saw it and wanted him to try to be better. How naïve was he, and how immature to think that the army was the solution to anything. He was so young back then. It was more of a tantrum against his family, who he thought would feel bad for driving him there, but that severely backfired when it only led to more pain and isolation.

The PTSD was the worst, the nightmares, the worst-case scenarios playing out, the injuries, both the real and the fake ones. He felt completely and utterly hollow. Life devoid of meaning, and no warmth of a friend to turn to, all connections having been lost or severed. That day he met Mike, was an oasis, but he would never admit it. Human connection was necessary, as always recommended by his doctor. And he desperately craved it.

______________________________________________________________

A man, bright crystal-like eyes, doll like complexion and curly hair, and ethereal beauty and a staggering intelligence, so interesting and so compelling, able to swoop you off your feet right into the beauty of his mind. That incredible wit and lightening speed thinking, aroused places in john’s mind that he had forgotten about existing, or never even knew they were there. Excitement, liveliness, intrigue, the life coming back to his body and bones, as he experienced every moment with that compelling, extraordinary man. Sherlock would never know how infinitely grateful John is to him, despite his superhuman abilities of deduction and sharp eyes. After all, emotions were his blind spot. 

The man was like a child in his enthusiasm, the people around him either recognizing his heart and uniqueness or labelled him psychotic. His world was fast and exciting. A constant push against the norms; society, people’s expectations, and all that is humanly impossible. A man who never even realized the immense courage and verve he had for never giving up. Every aspect of his life was a challenge, and he took it with open arms and fought back, marching with strong, confident steps, mending things his way even if his life was the cost. 

He dragged John in and allowed him everywhere without inhibitions, like the gracious giving creature he is. Never restricting or holding back any details no matter how embarrassing. he was human in all the ways a human could be, but John wondered how so few people could see that. 

John spent that first night learning, relearning and remembering why he liked medicine so much, and feeling the most alive and content he ever felt till that day. When they stopped by to eat at Angelo’s he found his mouth doing all the talking for him, being incredibly and inexcusably nosey, like he had never been before. Prying more into Sherlock’s life, as if he hasn’t been gracious enough. Sherlock caught it, of course he did, and john never felt more mortified or shameful. A man so gorgeous, so smart, so perfect and so…unattainable. But most of all, a man. God. That was humiliating. Never mind that he wouldn’t look at John even if he was the last man on earth, John was so enthralled by the man to the point he had shown homosexual tendencies. It wasn’t disgust; it was quiet shame. The one that would make you want to lower your head and never want to pick it up again. 

He felt so disappointed in himself, he wanted to do nothing but disappear and never have to see Sherlock again. But of course, Sherlock dragged him right back into his world, one filled with adventure and thrill, and no time for any emotions but excitement and curiosity.   
Sherlock was sweeping him off his feet, giving him all the attention, as if John was worth it, and impressing him at every corner with things only a superhuman like Sherlock would do. Like curing his leg. He made it so difficult for John, and as if on purpose. Being silly around him, charming him with his giggles after ditching him in a crime scene, being just so fascinating and interesting and perplexing. 

Sherlock was so gentle with him, and so crass with everybody else. As the night went on, he realized why. They were terrible people and said horrible things about him that weren’t true. When his addiction was to be made known for John because of his stupid, honest defence, Sherlock grabbed his shoulders and tried to tell him so gently, as if afraid that John would be scared away. Like a horrible secret and Sherlock’s own shame. Something he had no control over. And yet so careful with him about it. John was in awe. He was sure his mouth was bound to let drool out from being agape for so long. But the softness, the kindness, the inviting graciousness, as if an old friend, put on top of extreme beauty and intelligence, was rendering him speechless, and feeling things he knows he shouldn’t have felt.

__________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock was the kind of mystery that would put himself in front of imminent death only to have an intellectual thrill. a puzzle so rare, and so unusual, it confused john terribly.

The war was something that was still a constant. Like Mycroft obnoxiously deduced, it was a craving, something to keep him sane and distracted. It was the cabbie or Sherlock, and John reacted on impulse, saving Sherlock of his own mind. 

In hindsight, maybe Sherlock had a death wish as well. 

Sherlock was a ragged beautiful mess, hair fizzing out because of the humidity, increasing the volume of his bangs and further accentuating his crystal eyes, making him look like a Greek God. He covered for John, and John knew it, but still tried to not confess, but Sherlock gave him that beautiful, pleased look, and John hated himself to thrill in the death of that cabbie if its result was to get this man’s approval. They spent the rest of the evening eating Chinese, and Sherlock uninhibitedly deducing, and John falling in deeper.  
__________________________________________________


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock selfishly tried never to give him time to think, lest he realized the madness of it all. But John never ceased getting involved anyway, always willing, and always there.

The first day Sherlock saw John, he had an immediate, unadulterated, ridiculous, shameful crush on him. An officer and a doctor, but also so unaware of his greatness. A small framed short man, with all the kindness and warmth any human body could possibly hold, an honesty that betrays him, and a gentleness, that is accompanied by goodness and strength.  


Sherlock never minded the stigma around different sexualities and all the social constructs. Them being for the average simpletons to care about. He never wanted to live on their same wavelength, nor found any pleasure in their mundane ways of life. He was never ashamed by his attraction to John. He was only ashamed by knowing him only the day before, and already falling in so deep.  


When Sherlock mistakenly thought John’s innocent questions at the restaurant to be flirting, wishful thinking perhaps, he couldn’t reject him the way he rejected everybody else. Because he was indeed honored and flattered. For such a good, kind, brilliant man to consider Sherlock. The Asperger who unknowingly insults people at every turn and was called every name in the book from a freak to a psychopath. A person who is so oblivious to emotions and social norms, no matter how much he tried. John was always in awe, as if Sherlock’s weirdness and freakiness was in any way admirable. For the first time, he had a companion, someone who understood, and had valuable skills, but was also so kind and obliging. It was only him being gracious surely. But Sherlock couldn’t help but bask in all the attention he was given.

John provided a constant safety in 221B, his routines were anchoring, his smell lingering on everything he touched, his warmth encompassing Sherlock through constant offerings of tea, and obliging conversations. He was providing both a stability and a distraction, a mixture only a person like John could provide. John was willingly getting involved in whatever disaster Sherlock put his way. And Sherlock selfishly tried never to give him time to think, lest he realized the madness of it all. But John never ceased getting involved anyway, always willing, and always there. 

On one beautiful morning, a day where the sun uncharacteristically rose in London, John took his normal daily shower, a sustaining white noise in the background as Sherlock carried on his experiments under the microscope. He emerged later on from within the vapor, warm, soft and aromatic, and everything Sherlock wished to plunge into and never surface.  


“Sherlock, what did I tell you about the body parts in the kettle? That’s what we drink for crying out loud” Sherlock smiled without looking away from the microscope. The fits John had, were incredibly endearing, it was always good to see him alive, annoyed beyond compare, but alive, than encompassed by ghosts of his past.  


He was enthrallingly beautiful, soft around the edges, but very strong and capable, a man that is sexy in all the ways Sherlock never knew he liked.  
John asked, as he always does, about what new experiment Sherlock had this time, something no one but Molly ever bothered to know, and Sherlock was always happy to explain and amaze john. Looking into his deep, color changing eyes (he could swear John’s eyes were everything from blue, gray, to brown) and taking more of his attention, care, and selfless assistance. 

The possibility of the people he held dear getting caught by the fire caused by his insane addictions to danger, was maddening. The day John almost got bombed was the day Sherlock reassessed all his choices. To finally find a friend, a companion, only to be taken away by his own doing. Sherlock wouldn’t allow it. John was adamant on creating spaces, putting boundaries like the man of rules and principles he was. Not only heavily swatting away any possibility of being a homosexual, but refusing to even be called a friend. A colleague. As if Sherlock ever needed any. There was no man in this universe designed just so like John, and Sherlock never wanted anybody else. Not any assistant could take his place, and no one was needed that could ever dream of filling the place John created. 

He left the microscope and diverted his attention back to John, running his eyes over his figure, deducing. His left arm was slightly strained, a sign of stress. His easy annoyance only a sign of a family member causing him distress. Harry, who else.  


“have you called her?” Sherlock said, looking back into the microscope.  


“Who?”  
“Don’t be stupid John, it’s incredibly boring.”  


“Well, forgive me for not catching up with your frightening intellect, do you mind explaining for a simpleton like me?”  
Sherlock caught the anger in john’s tone and immediately reverted his eyes back to him, gazing at him sharply.  


“You’re far from a simpleton John. You’re the most admirable man I’ve ever met, and you must know that.” Sherlock said matter of factly, looking right back into the microscope, aware of his quickly reddening ears.  


John gave him wide eyes, stunned by his speech, all semblance of annoyance out the window.  


“Harry, I meant” Sherlock said  


John sighed, rubbing at his temple. “You know I don’t want to talk about it.” He said, taking a sip from his tea, eyes sad and downcast, yet patient.  


“Why did you go to the army?’  


John burst up from the chair heading towards the hanger to retrieve his jacket, and Sherlock was in shock.  


“John...”  


“I’m going for a walk”  


And that was the end of that.

\----------

It was later in the evening when John came back, eyes calmer, and stance more peaceful. Sherlock looked at him like a lost child. No one gave him as much confusion and intrigue as this man. He was so kind john yet firm, always gently keeping Sherlock in check. And sometimes, not so gently. But making Sherlock feel alive either way.  


“Hey” John said  


“Hi, sorry...”  


“No, it’s ok” John stopped him mid-sentence.  


John took his time getting off his jacket and going back to his chair, looking into Sherlock eyes and feeling guilty. Sherlock was sure he looked at least a bit as distraught as he felt. He got all people annoyed and running as further away from him as possible. And he was used to it and didn’t care anymore. But not John. He didn’t want to disappoint John too. The most patient and most tolerant man he knew.  


John gave a big sigh and looked at Sherlock, eyes soft and sad.  


“I’m sorry…” he couldn’t finish. Of course. Many traumas. He couldn’t even verbalize it to his therapist, Sherlock deduced. Not to mention a flat mate.  


Sherlock got up from the sofa, taking his seat in front of john. He never was good with emotions. But at this moment, he wanted to give john the most caring, and understanding expression he can manage, one that would quiet his turbulent heart, and make him know that there were no words needed to be said.  


Instead, his mind betrayed him anyway. “You had no one to provide for, no one was to benefit from your time in the army, not even you.” His mouth ran. “There were many other solutions, the current flat mate arrangement being one of them.” John looked at him, a faint sad smile donning his face, patiently waiting for him. “All the evidence points to you having some sort of a death wish. You’re neither patriotic nor do you like violence, your addiction to adrenaline rush only acquired after you joined the army. A coping mechanism perhaps.” God please make him stop. He hates himself he hates himself he hates…  


“you’re right, as you always are.” John said soft smile in place.  


“John, I…”  


“I like it, you deducing me.” John hurriedly said. Then struck by the implications of his words he sputtered “I mean, I understand Sherlock. I know that you like doing it. And it saves me the pain of talking. Or having to think through all of…that, only to fail at deducing myself.” He sighed. “I like it, it’s helpful. And as annoying as it is sometimes, I’m grateful for it.”  


John was a kind man. He had so many cards to hurt Sherlock irredeemably, and Sherlock often wondered why he gave him all the leads. Why he bared his soul in front of him, when he had so many walls with everyone else. Instead, John refrained from ever adding to any grievances Sherlock had. Always impressing Sherlock, always being more good than he could fathom.  


The rest of the evening was spent in Sherlock apologizing again, trying his best to make it up for John through tea and promises of a dinner date, settling instead on watching crap telly together, and John was greatly bemused by Sherlock’s anxiousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to finish it as fast as I can, but I have he awful trait of getting easily bored ':D and I'm sleepy af after the long week. But since I made you a promise- and honestly it'd feel great for my self esteem to finish it as well- I'll try as much as I can to push myself. Thanks you for reading and again, comments are much appreciated. Oh, and happy valentine's day :D.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarah was a sweet, beautiful, confident, and smart woman, and all the way out of his league. But somehow, she chose him, and he was very grateful for that.

Living with Sherlock was all parts bliss and disaster. Most of the time he didn’t know whether to guffaw at the absurdity or to shit his pants from the sheer fright he gets every time he finds some body part somewhere. And he’s a doctor! Sherlock turns out to be every part childlike John had assumed he was at the first day he saw him in that apartment. It was equal parts infuriating and endearing. He had so much life in him. And if John was honest with himself, he would always prefer a restless, crazy Sherlock, to his past life and its silence. He knows he would choose him always. Just the way he was. Sherlock was a gift from God, and day by day, John started to forget how he lived his life before him. And if he had ever lived at all.

Sarah was a sweet, beautiful, confident, and smart woman, and all the way out of his league. But somehow, she chose him, and he was very grateful for that. John was, after all, a family man, even if that family wasn’t yet created. He was a reliable, dependable man of morality and honor. And he wanted, desperately, to fulfill his supposed part in the society; to be a husband and a father, and to lead a respectable, normal life. 

Not only was she an intellectual badass, she was all parts a bad ass; she proved herself even cooler by withstanding all the horror of that first date, being kidnapped, tortured, but most of all, so courageous as to fight back and fight with them without being asked. She didn’t get scared away. More careful, if anything, but still willing, and John admired her so much for that. 

Sarah, however, was indeed smart, because she knew that John was, and will always be occupied with Sherlock. The breakup was kind. They went to New Zealand as part of Sherlock’s work and as a trip together. But Sarah kindly told him that she thinks his heart is elsewhere, and that she wishes he would follow it. She saw him as a sweet, reliable man. An admirable man, and a man who deserved all he happiness in the world. She sealed her speech by a kiss on his cheek and that was the end of that.

John was heartbroken. He tried and tried to date women, all were smart and kind and caring, but all saw right through his relationship with Sherlock. Sherlock was protecting him left and right, amending to his requests to change behaviors John might see as “infuriating” like shooting the wall, and leaving him behind mid chase or mid crime scene. As much as he could of course, the body parts were to remain in the kitchen. He went so far as to go crazy over any threat that was possibly aimed at John or Mrs. Hudson, ripping John’s bomb jacket off, and scratching his own head with a loaded gun like a crazy, desperate man. And not at all the cold and collected Sherlock he is to everyone else. Craving his attention like a child and fussing when there’s no case, getting disappointed when John runs out of patience and goes away for a walk. Wanting for his attention, always ready to save him first, even if his own life was on the line. John determined that Sherlock was so pure to the point that his friends were considered family, and he treated them exactly as such. And John reveled in that realization. No matter how many lack-of-case breakdowns he’ll have to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter. I really hope I know what I'm doing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe John was, as Sherlock says, too irrational and too sentimental. But even John could admit that this was a dead end.

John was not the sort of fellow to give up. He was a man of resilience and stillness against the storms. That's what Sherlock admired in him, after all - he told him one night. But this was getting ridiculous. He wanted so badly to just give up. Despite his personality that longs for stability of a family and of constant warmth that he knows would remain, safe and open for him to return, after his adrenaline addiction took him to the edge of the universe and back; he had to give up dating. Maybe John was, as Sherlock says, too irrational and too sentimental. But even John could admit that this was a dead end. Even he sees right through himself. His subconscious pushed the women away. Of course he could make more time for them. Of course he could (theoretically) say no to Sherlock. But he loved the life he was leading. And as the wise man he is; he gave in. It wasn't easy. The pain and the shame and the epic failure haunted him for many nights. But then he woke up one quaint day, and Sherlock was in his pyjamas tranquil- for once in a very long time- drinking his tea while the sun shone on his face. And John was just...ok. He didn't know what the future holds, he knew that he was surely flinging himself right in trouble's arms again. But what could he say? It wasn't an easy addiction. And it was futile and exhausting to fight back. So, he might as well give in. Sherlock; as unstable as he is, was his family. And Mrs Hudson and George and Molly and Greg. Whatever will be will be.

Sherlock was...a friend. Of course he was a friend. He was John's best friend. He only said he was a colleague to spite him. And because John wanted to maintain some of his fleeting dignity that is useless in front of Sherlock's every whim. Deep down he knows he could never say no to Sherlock. He knows that despite his better judgement and his reason and his logic, he will always forgive Sherlock, no matter what adversities and pain he threw his way. He didn't know what was that to be called? A pushover? Stockholm Syndrome? A man maddeningly and terribly in love? A man seeking after a person who already rejected him so many moons ago? It was pathetic. But it was ok. He made peace with it. He'll move on when he move on. And if he keeps pushing against it and not acknowledging it; it will take much longer to be processed and go away. At least that's what his therapist told him about his clinical depression. But so is any other adversity in life, he reckons. If you didn't face it, it'll never go away.

**Author's Note:**

> Do not fret, I'll add all the chapters and finish this work as soon as possible (within this weekend hopefully). Comments are highly appreciated.


End file.
